


Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

by zonophone



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:30:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zonophone/pseuds/zonophone
Summary: Grand betrayal. What will Makkachin choose? Loyalty to Viktor, his teacher, his brother, his best friend, or loyalty to Yuuri, who's asleep for the whole thing?





	Goodbye Yellow Brick Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hikachu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikachu/gifts).



> i love u sm hik

Sometime after the championship in Ostrava, Viktor walks home, box of pastries in his hand and an Elton John tune on his lips—he tries whistling but it's too cold so he settles with humming (and makes a note in his mind about how beautiful a choreography to this one song would look). He's careful not to distract himself from the thought of getting to spend the freezing afternoon in the safety of his apartment, lying in the soft memory foam mattress he got online some months ago, wrapped up in soft cotton sheets and thick woolen (polyester blend) blankets, eating the pastries, keeping Makkachin from getting at them, and drinking hot tea with honey and vodka—prepared in the antique enamel samovar Yuuri likes—maybe watching a movie or kissing every inch of Yuuri's skin until he playfully pushes Viktor away, and Viktor pretends to be hurt, pretends to cry so that Yuuri will kiss him better—he'll have won again. Finally, he gets to share the quiet downtime of winter mid-week afternoon with the one he loves, sharing warmth under the covers, swapping stories and 'What's your favorite song by an obscure eighties band that isn't either American or Japanese?' and the time the ice cracked and sliced his cheek so bad he thought he might never be beautiful again and cried himself to sleep and the next day realized tears made for very good skin care products, and he shared it with Yakov and Yakov pretended to be angry at him, even though he could've used the advice, considering his face.

He climbs up the steps to his apartment in twos, carried by his own excitement, but also because he considers it exercise and is always nagging at Yuuri for choosing, no exceptions, the elevator every time. As if Viktor, and not Yuuri, was the one in most dire need of exercise. He opens the door, turns the key to the last notes of the song, and finishes humming when he takes off his shoes. In retrospect, meaning when he looks back on this some moments from now, he should've seen it coming when Makkachin didn't come running immediately to greet him, barking excitedly, matching his words of happiness at the joyous reunion, and dancing holding paws. But he thinks maybe Makkachin was occupied elsewhere, staring at the mysterious and surely evil cat that poses itself in the window of the apartment across the street and stares directly into Viktor's as if plotting an attack or taunting Makkachin, urging him to meet him later, out in the street, after dark, but when it's less cold, because right now it's too cold, but it's penciled in, at least, for later, maybe Spring.

  
So he calls out:  
“Makkachi~in, Yuuri! I'm home!”  
And the scenes of domestic bliss—being held close, “Welcome home” breathed warmly into his neck, two hands on his back, and the smell of the other person mingling with the smell he'd always identified as home—go through his mind like a slow motion replay that takes nonetheless a couple seconds only.

All that happens is that Makkachin dares to show some sort of grumpy expression, coming out of the bedroom, and stands squarely just at the threshold, cutting Viktor's way off. From where he stands though he can quite clearly see the crumpled sheets and what he knows is Yuuri's form, wrapped up on his own on the bed. Sleeping? He wasn't even gone that long! Not that that would deter him because waking Yuuri up with kisses is also beautiful, he looks groggy and lost and his eyelids like glue and he fumbles looking for his glasses (they're on Viktor's head so he won't find them but he looks so cute trying to find them blind), so, ever the optimist, Viktor smiles again and pets Makkachin.  
“Ah, I see so he fell asleep. He left you all alone, huh?”  
Makkachin doesn't make a sound, though—a tell-tale sign Viktor again fails to recognize. And when Viktor tries to step over him to get into his room, Makkachin shifts his position, assuring the feat is not accomplished. But that alone wouldn't deter someone like Viktor, you don't win five times in a row with a quitting attitude, you don't get to do anything, so his smile doesn't falter—rarely does—and he tries a different route. But Makkachin is by any standard Viktor's peer among peers, he's Viktor's equal in determination and stamina, they are, after all, brothers in arms. So his smiles remains, of course, as he speaks his realization.  
“I see, Makkachin. You're keeping me from entering because you think I'll wake him up, and you're guarding his sleep for some reason.”  
Makkachin looks at him, transmitting his reply (“Yes”) through his eyes, which Christophe once, drunk on cheap wine, called empty and dumb—he apologized profusely the next day, faced with the fact that Viktor wouldn't speak to him again, because betrayal is logically followed by revenge.

Which is why now his smile twitches a little when he looks down on he who supposedly should know where his fealties lie, with Viktor, who's clothed and fed and cared for him for years, and not Yuuri, a newcomer who, despite how tired he might be, shouldn't just be napping on this momentous day, their afternoon off, their time to eat pastries and roll themselves up in the covers, and drink scalding hot tea.

So Viktor kneels, rubs Makkachin's head behind his ears with a gentle and smile, and whispers.  
“If you betray me you should expect revenge. Your loyalty should be with me, Makkachin, hasn't it always been the two of us? Me and you, _contra mundum_?”  
Sadly, but only if perhaps he hadn't committed such a treacherous act, Makkachin looks conflicted. He looks back at the bed and then back at Viktor, kneeling in front of him, and Viktor would probably bet his life that a montage of all the good times he and Makkachin have lived through is going through his best friend's mind—in black and white because people say dogs can't see color and Viktor looks really good in contrasting black and white—so the choice's been made for him, years ago, when Viktor saved his life (could maybe phrase that less dramatically but why would he?)  
Viktor counts the seconds it takes for Makkachin to process the information, hesitate, then let out a tiny, strangled yelp, and look back at Yuuri's sleeping form with sincere remorse, more contrite than anyone Viktor ever saw at church, he almost feels himself swell up with pride at how gentle, how beautiful a soul he's helped shape, has been at his side forever. Almost because it's not like what he did was a minor foul, and it'll take a couple days before Viktor can truly forget all about it, put a pin on it and forget about it until the time comes when he needs it to twist Makkachin's arm in another argument.  
  
It takes Makkachin exactly twenty seven seconds.

Viktor stands up then, satisfied another victory has been reclaimed for his side, and whispers to himself, “You're on your own now, Yuuri Katsuki,” before he jumps on the bed—on Yuuri more specifically—and kisses Yuuri's cheeks and neck and hair all over while feeling around under the covers to find the spots he knows are most sensitive to tickling.  
He's finally, truly home.


End file.
